I Must Be Gone And Live, Or

There's No More Faith In Thee Than In A Stewed Prune.

If Music Be The Food Of Love, Play On.

My Joy Is Death- Death, At Whose Name I Oft Have Been Afeard, Because I Wish'd This World's Eternity.

The Ostentation Of Our Love, Which, Left Unshown, Is Often Left Unloved.

Grim-visaged War Hath Smoothed His Wrinkled Front; And Now, Instead Of Mounting Barbed Steeds To Fright The Souls Of Fearful Adversaries, He Capers Nimbly In A Lady's Chamber To The Lascivious Pleasing Of A Lute.